Happy Halloween

I hate Halloween. Having to justify my distaste, and lack of costume, every year to a group of loud, camera happy, plastic mask smelling, hair sprayed friends, I have gotten pretty good at explaining my feelings. Like most deep-rooted hatreds, I had a bad experience. I was seven years old, Halloween night. We had just bought our current house, which looks over a nice park. My Father, in cahoots with my mother, walked us through the park looking towards our new home. Inside running through the large arching windows was my mother in an enormous white dress. I can’t remember if she was screaming but I always associate the memory with high pitched moans running through my head. Her hair was long and sprouting in every direction as her candlelit silhouette ran through our new house. My sister and I immediately began to cry and my dad quickly realized it was not humorous and he would potentially need to get the down payment back on the house. Little did we know the house was and still remains one of the scariest houses in the greater metro Denver. The second reason I detest Halloween is because I am allergic to peanuts. Unfortunately this has never hindered my consumption of candy, but on Halloween it does. At least 80% of the grub on the streets Halloween night contains peanuts or peanut butter. At the end of the night, I would be forced to shovel away nearly two thirds of my merchandise in return for flavorless Dots or something of the sort. This is most certainly not to be confused with me being deprived of any candy or food for that matter throughout my whole life, but one night every October, I was left to starve. I enjoyed some moments, it was just the idea of going out and dressing up like somebody I wasn’t and then asking for candy of all things, only to end up with 31 packs of Dots, a rogue Snickers and some Nerds at the end of the night wasn’t my idea of fun. Finally, I have an immense fear and disgust towards hair die. The smell makes me want to vomit and the appearance of a crusted vibrant color in someone’s hair has always deeply haunted me. I do not mean to put a damper on anyone’s Halloween, just wanted to say I didn’t like it. I find Namibia one of the more enjoyable places to not celebrate Halloween. First of all, there aren’t many people here, and I don’t think they know what Halloween is. Unfortunately, I live in a house with 22 Americans…

The Big O

Fall break came just at the right time and with an abundance of relaxation. It all began with the roomy and surprisingly comfortable accommodations of the Intercape Bus Service. Our Sleep-Liner bus had two levels and we each (6 friends) slept comfortably in our own row on the top deck. After a half an Ambien and some Cadbury Milk Chocolate I was at the South Africa border. We were picked up by our young yet weathered 25-year-old guide, Dylan, in a rickety Land Rover and taken to the Umkulu base camp. The base camp was beautifully situated between other outfitters, farms, and vineyards along the bank of the Orange River. The remainder of our week went by as perfectly as one could imagine. We paddled about 45km total over three and half days which resulted in lots of laying on the back of our inflatable boats and swimming when we felt warm. The river itself runs through the incredibly rugged, uninhabitable, and striking Richtersveld Mountains. We passed by hundreds of wonderful birds, including Fish Eagles, Goliath Herons and Giant Kingfishers. We also were lucky enough to see several wild horses, baboons, and plenty of sheep and goats. Our guides prepared superb vegetarian meals for us all week and we never had problems finishing our first and second servings. We spent our afternoons napping, reading and hiking and our evenings sleeping under the stars. Now back to my last few weeks of class…

The Watering Hole

Etosha National Park

• Throwing up 5 times on the way there, twice in a grocery store (bad)
o Getting to sit in the front seat of the air conditioned van to “heal”
o Front seat means great pictures on the game drive
o Getting sick all part of a photography plan

• Giraffes
• Rhinos
• Oryx
• Springboks
• Wildebeests
• Elephants
• Hyenas
• Jackals
• Leopard
• Lions
• Lots of Birds

•Our beloved soccer ball being stolen and ruined by Honey Badgers despite Passat running and yelling after them. RIP Soccer Ball, it was a good run…

• Last van ride home from an incredible, exhausting, challenging, and unforgettable two weeks

Fila

From our home-stays and Outapi, we drove a few hours towards the ocean and into the land of the Himba. The Himba people are one of the oldest groups of humans and remain almost how they were over 900 years ago. Many of you may have seen pictures of these beautiful people covered in a red paste with braids of thick red clay. CGE had worked out a complex deal with a chief, for only the second time, that we could camp next to his village if we brought some food and supplies for his people. This resulted in us staying within throwing distance of an ancient community for 3 days. First and foremost the Himba are the most beautiful race of people I have ever seen. The women, bare-breasted, wear ornate belts and anklets according to how many children they have and the girls wear brighter colored beads around the chest and hair. The boys wear loin clothes and minimal coverings but the modern dress is beginning to creep in as many boys wear torn shirts and shorts. Each night we would light a fire and eat dinner beside it as the Himba children and women would appear out of the darkness only to sit down peacefully next to our fire. When we gave them food, the peace was quickly put on hault and it turned into a scene of aggression and fury. The boys were responsible for all of this chaos, while the girls sat quietly and politely and would even wait for the boys to arrive to eat their food. We communicated with each other through body language and our hands and taught each other words in our respective languages. I spent both nights sitting and talking with a beautiful and bright 12-year-old girl named Fila. We exchanged words for star and the moon and told each other of our families. Fila will remain one of the main figures in my memory of this semester and I apologize for not being able to elaborate on that further. The experience of sitting with this community by firelight was nothing short of surreal and in that sense very hard to describe. I took walks at night and early in the morning guided by the fires of the different families and realized that this thousand year old community will be gone, certainly in this form, before I turn 50 and most likely sooner. We discussed as a group if this modernization is an avoidable, negative, and necessary thing? We didn’t come to any conclusions, but how could we, and most importantly how could they?

Eyalo

Eyalo - "thank you" in Oshivambo

The task of summarizing or capturing my last two weeks strikes me as very daunting and even silly. That said, I am off for a week long canoe trip down the Orange River in South Africa so I feel I must write something. I spent my first week in the wonderful and loving home/village of my Meme (mother) Albertina. The village was just a few minutes drive from Outapi, which is in very Northern Namibia, close to the Angolan border. The home consisted of this beautifully enclosed maze of traditional huts and fireplaces all surrounded by head high sticks and posts. Also living within my home was my 22-year-old host sister Loide and cousin Valentine, my 17 year old brother Simeon, a 9 year old Oteale, and a 2 year old Eyalo. Eyalo was far and away the cutest and most beautiful child I have ever seen. Each and every one of them could not have been more quizzical, welcoming, and loving during my stay. None of them spoke English but my Meme and Loide knew enough to get me through the day and a few simple questions. Somewhere along the line, before i got there, they decided my name was Nicky and the removal of the “y” just seemed like too daunting of a conversation, so I went with it. Before I go any further, it was 110 degrees during the day and probably 85 degrees at night. The hottest I have ever been. No water or electricity, but I was given my own little jug of water to drink and wash with, which worked out just fine. The food was incredible and the best I have had since arriving in Namibia. The older women would spend most of the day cooking on the open fire and always prepared large amounts of everything. My favorite meal was freshly killed (in front of me) goat and chicken cooked with tomatoes and onions along with delicious pasta with home-ground nut oil from a local tree. To drink was the home-brewed beer, a thick and tangy concoction that sat bubbling in a clay pot with a plethora of bugs swimming on the surface, each trying to escape the taste of my nightly challenge. Not as bad as it sounds but it was no Stella Artois. The culture is very focused on males and their superiority, which manifested itself in the women not being allowed to touch my food and the rest of the family only being allowed to eat what I didn’t finish. Being the oldest male in the home was a very odd and uncomfortable situation for me. I felt immediately empowered while all I wanted to do was fit in. That said, when I was eager to share the meat and food with everyone in the family they were surprised and very appreciative.

The initial sight of these villages and collection of huts screams poverty, yet it is only once within the community and lifestyle that it shifts from lack of wealth to an abundance of tradition. What I mean by that is I viewed my home-stay family as traditional as opposed to impoverished. In fact, I found the lifestyle quite uplifting and humbling. Cooking everything over the open fire, eating by candlelight or no light at all, and no dependence on electricity. From a mere week of observation, my family and surrounding community was one of the happiest and uplifting ones I have ever experienced. The question, which I don’t have an answer for, is what does one busy electricity dependant American take from all this. No, you or I can’t just turn all the lights off and squat by the fire, but we can all spend a few nights under the stars talking with family and friends, escaping from our own heat of the day. I understand that cultures are different, it is what makes them so intriguing and important, but when you spend time in one that seems to have its priorities so in perspective, it causes you to question your own.

One experience that sticks out from my home-stay was driving a rickety pick-up truck full of young boys and water jugs to the closest tap. We drove in and out of the trees weaving past makeshift soccer pitches, nowhere close to a road or town, to a small cement structure with a faucet. We filled seven or eight 25 liter water jugs and then an entire trash can while all the boys stared at me wondering what I was doing there. I asked Simeon how much they paid and he said 20 bucks for all of it, roughly 3 US dollars. Another great “male” experience was walking with Simeon and usually a few other boys to go gather our cattle and goats, which were usually uncomfortably far away considering the heat. We herded them, Simeon and gang always barefoot, back towards their corrals and they always complied, filing into their respective pens quite smoothly. Simeon would often laugh at me if a cow got slightly out of the pack on my side but he also knew that he was eating whatever I didn’t, so he held off. I spent the nights sitting outside my room looking up at the brilliant stars and Milky Way, waiting for my room to dip below a hundred degrees. This waiting period was only followed by climbing into the cage that was my mosquito net covered bed. I would leave the door open against the wishes of my Meme, if not I may have passed, and would wake up very early in the morning to close it before she could notice. Our home-stays ended with a massive party of all the students and their families gathered under a tree eating, exchanging stories and songs. I left the next morning arms filled with everything from a traditional bow and arrow to a full cooked chicken and Papaya for my journey. As I left I received my last broken English exchange from my Meme and sister who explained, “we love you too much my child from America, do not forget us.” I am quite sure I won’t and hope I showed them half of what they showed me.

Soccer in Swakop

The price tag read forty-seven Namibian dollars ($7 US) for a tacky South Africa soccer ball at the local Pick n’Pay. Sam gave me fifteen dollars, not half of forty-seven, and said we should get it. I didn’t feel particularly good about being sucked into paying for two thirds of the ball, especially since I would always be using it with someone at least twice as good as me at soccer. Needless to say, we got it, and it was magical.

The first test of our new ball took place immediately after the purchase. Sam and I walked down to the beach and began passing while the wind blew veraciously off the Atlantic. Our first soccer session ended with little excitement and we walked back up the streets to meet our group. As we walked a number of men would signal for the ball and we would pass it to them only to watch a few standard ball handling skills and then receive the ball back to continue our walk. We moved on with our tour of Swakopmund and soon enough we found ourselves running around, arms spread, celebrating goals we had scored on a make shift goal at an after school program Walvis Bay. The ball was already beginning to egg but it didn’t matter. The more the ball expanded into an oval, the more people it drew. After our last stop of the day, at another mine funded youth program, we started a game of keep away with a group of six or seven kids on the street. The streets on the coast of Namibia are wide and constructed with a mixture of clay, mud and dirt. We formed a large circle in the vacant street and began to pass around the man/boy in the middle. Style and skills were a must, for just passing it was far too easy, for them… I threw the ball in the air and tested my slowly improving soccer skills yet usually ended up in the middle. The young shoeless kids, maybe 11 or 12 would use all of their favorite tricks and cut quickly around the road, desperately trying not to lose the ball. The game went on for quite some time until we were called to get back in the van, only to sit there sweating as I yearned for Passat to drive faster so the wind could race through the window and erase the beads of sweat on my face. As the van pulled up to our backpackers hostel right on the water, Sam and I turned simultaneously and said “ocean.” We ran in and changed into our suits and ran down the street toward the freezing water and howling wind. Sam was a few strides ahead of me, as usual, and was in the water before I could feel the sand on my feet. Consequently I was standing there questioning if wanted to feel as cold as I could tell Sam was. That said, I jumped in and was it terrible but mostly enjoyable. People walking by looked at us like we had just figured how to get out of our straight jackets but it didn’t matter, when in Africa right… We then met a group of Namibian students who were in training to become teachers and also testing the temperature of the water on the beach. It was too cold for them and it quickly became Sam and my job to fill up their jugs full of salt water, which we were told had some special use in the rural north. And of course as our day had gone, we began playing soccer with the group. We juggled and laughed around the circle while the waves would rush up and usually wipe the ball away. You’d think we’d be “soccered-out,” as I was, but Sam still had some left and he spent the next hour juggling with the owner and a guest of our hostel. Our days in Swakopmund continued on pace with our first and in turn they were fantastic and full of new encounters and ever improving juggling skills. The power of the soccer ball and sports has struck me more than just in Swakopmund. I see it three times a week when I intern at Physically Active Youth (PAY) and I even see it in every day interactions at home and in Africa.

People often separate themselves by those teams or sports they support, yet it is only when we remove these divisions and rivalries that we find the true power of sport. Sport is universal, it is a language, it is a great insight into a culture while also being a great venue to enter one. This was never more apparent than the connection Sam had with a deaf man who supported his beloved Liverpool at our hostel. A group of us sat in front of the minuscule TV watching the red of Liverpool dash across the screen while the deaf man pointed to the patch on his shirt as Sam did the same. The two shared thumbs ups and smiles throughout the game, and although it ended undesirably, they both agreed silently, there is always next year….

Our soccer ball introduced us to probably 20 or 30 people is Swakopmund while at the same time it helps teach kids at PAY necessary life skills like honesty and how to lose. Ideally the purchase of our $7 dollar soccer ball will continue to be the catalyst of many more relationships and juggling sessions but most importantly it will hopefully even teach us a few life skills along the way.

Shebeen Scene

I apologize for not updating my blog for quite some time. I could tell you that I didn’t have good Internet or was busy but then I would be lying. After a month in Africa, which is hard to believe, Windhoek is starting to feel more comfortable and I’m actually growing quite fond of the place. It is small, yet extremely diverse and there is a lot to do. I spent ten days at an urban home-stay in Dorado Park, which is a good, not great, neighborhood in Windhoek. My little sister, Ndeshi, and I spent lots of time with each other and got a long very well. My host mother and father were gone for the entire 10 days, so Ndeshi and I essentially just made meals and watched the US Open on commercial breaks of her MTV shows. Nadal!! My older brother Victor was a wonderful guy, but was unfortunately only around for a day and half. We spent most of one day preparing for a braai (BBQ), where we enjoyed some wonderful spiced beef as well as some shrimp, which I prepared and no one had ever had before. The “prawns” were a hit. We ate the meal as we watched TV with their Oshivambo grandmother, from very rural northern Namibia, who was convinced that the people on TV could see her. Aside from her connection with the Namibian soap opera stars, she was quite disappointed that I did not speak Oshivambo and that I never brought her beer. She did although make me try her home brew of beer, which sat in a bucket in the kitchen bubbling at room temperature. Surprisingly it wasn’t terrible and was quite strong. There was a never a doubt in my mind that grandma could drink me under the table.

Victor, 23, owns a shebeen jukebox in one of the informal settlements of Katatura. He also owns his own shebeen (corrugated tin shack bar), but its doors have been locked due to a bad business partner. Most importantly, it was time to collect the money from his Juxebok, so he brought me along. We headed out in our tiny car (visualize my knees touching my chest), fully loaded with zebra print seat covers and home made cheetos on the dash. Immediately upon arrival to the shebeen and absurdly large bottle of Windhoek Larger was placed in my hand, it was cold and I had no problem with the excessive volume. Victor greeted the owner and proceeded to open the juxebox and grab the colossal amount of single Namibian dollar pieces. We took the box of change into the back room, someone’s home and bed, and counted out $874 Namibian dollars. No talking, all business, and then we left. Victor is a public prosecutor, seriously.

Classes are in full swing and are all quite interesting. That said, they are each four hours and without fail get boring towards the end. Class structure itself is very discussion based and it is rare if we don’t have at least one speaker each class. We also visit many sites and museums during class, which helps break it up.

My internship at PAY remains a source of joy and excitement. Not to mention getting out of the CGE house!! I am both enjoying and struggling through tutoring students at PAY. Most kids are eager to learn but aren’t always focused and are often more interested in joking with friends. It is not uncommon for me to have a number of students between grades 8 and 10 who cannot read. Each sports coordinator or volunteer at PAY has their own team which plays both soccer and basketball games. I am happy to report that I am undefeated as a coach and pulled out a tough victory against my rival coach Big Mike, who is the Namibian College MVP basketball player.

Today most of the group got in the van and drove out to this beautiful Lake Oanob Resort, about an hour away from Windhoek, and spent the day swimming and hanging out by the beach. No complaints…